by Christina Ledbetter

Breakfast Concerns

Every morning when, or before, my alarm goes off, my fine cat Harold marches up the stairs to my bedroom to remind me that he will be requiring a tablespoon of Friskies to start his morning off right, just as he has every single other day of his life for his entire life. He does this by simultaneously circling the bed and making a sound like he is experiencing electric shock like they do in torture chambers on TV, and then jumping onto the bed and simultaneously circling my body and doing the electric shock thing again.

So once I check Facebook make the bed, I stagger toward the stairs to head down to the kitchen, and this is when Harold goes into total panic mode:

And the closer I get to the kitchen, the more he freaks out, thinking I’m not headed toward the kitchen. Or maybe I’m only headed toward the kitchen to feed the dog, and not Harold. Or maybe I’m going downstairs because I’m about to leave the house and go feed and pet another cat, and I’m going to stay gone forever.

To convince me to stay, to continue to feed him just like every single other day of his life, Harold walks ahead of me on the stairs, and after every step, he turns around to make sure I’m still with him. In order to check on me after every step, he must walk zigzagged down the stairs, which, let me tell you, is so convenient when I’m trying to walk down the steps behind him.

And then we get to the bottom.

And I feed him.

And all is well with the world.

Until dinnertime.

Secret Note: A few of you have asked me about my fancy lady interior designer. Here is her about page from her art website (she’s an artist – jealous? I am).

Another Secret Note: I’m not getting anything in exchange for passing along her info. She’s not giving me, like, free duvets and sconces. I just think she’s cool and want to spread the joy of knowing her.

Final Secret Note: She wanted to put a blanket at the foot of my bed, but I told her that it was going to get cat hair all over it. So she chose a blanket that’s the same color as Harold. So now I’m kind of locked into owning orange cats for the rest of the life of the blanket. Which is perfect, because orange cats are the best.